


The Morning After

by emmbright



Category: Outlander (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbright/pseuds/emmbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during episode 1x07, The Wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

Jamie was the first to open his eyes, the weak early morning sunlight of late autumn still strong enough to wake him as it filtered through the windows of their bridal chamber. He’d only been dozing, in any case, unable to fall deeply asleep with his mind and body still astir with remembrance of the night before.   
  
He could hardly believe Claire was truly his wife, even with her sprawled naked across him, her nose buried in his chest as she softly snored. Still harder to believe was that she’d taken him so willingly to her bed, and seemed to enjoy it as much as  _he_ had. He’d expected she would concede to lie with him the once, in order to consummate the marriage. But that she would want to touch him again and give him pleasure, that she would give herself over to pleasure herself, with screams and moaning that made him hard just remembering -- he had not expected that.  
  
Most of all he had not expected her to truly make love to him as she had the last time, taking both his body and soul into herself as she rocked above him. He had been afraid he’d said too much, telling her what she meant to him when he knew well she had only married him for the sake of safety. But she had seemed moved by his words, caressing him with such tenderness and wrapping them both in his plaid against the room’s chill. The look in her eyes as she gazed into his had given him hope that perhaps, one day, she would grow to care for him the way he cared for her.  
  
Claire stirred, eyes fluttering open. He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her -- a hint of whisky, the lavender soap Mrs. Fitz had gifted her with before she’d left Castle Leoch, and the warm, indefinable scent that was simply Claire.  
  
“Good morning,” he said, running a hand down her bare back. His hand nearly spanned the width of her waist. She was so small, but as he’d learned over the past few fraught days, she was not so fragile as she looked. He, on the other hand, felt that if she wished it, she could shatter him as easily as a bit of brittle pottery.  
  
She smiled and kissed his chest, just above his heart. “Good morning. Sleep well?”  
  
“Hardly a wink, Sassenach. I suppose I’m not yet used to havin’ a snoring wife sleepin’ beside me.”  
  
She propped herself up on an elbow, feigning outrage. Her eyes crinkled as she laughed, and he loved the look of happiness on her face, so different from the apprehension he’d seen there when first he saw her yesterday. “I do not snore, James Fraser.”  
  
“No, of course not, lass,” he teased, running his hand further down to squeeze her bum. “It must’ve been a wild boar I heard, rustlin’ and snortin’ in the gorse outside.”  
  
Claire snickered and flopped back onto the bed beside him with a sigh. “What time is it, do you think? Do we need to get up?”  
  
Jamie looked out the window, where the sun was inching its way up above the horizon. “I suppose we must. Dougal will want to get on wi’ collecting the rents. Besides, we canna lay about too late in the day without expecting more jests from the men. I dinna mind for myself, but I ken ye were upset wi’ their crude talk last night.”  
  
She shrugged and threw an arm above her head, turning to look at him. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and none of the discomfort of the night before.  
  
“I don’t really care,” she said. “They’ll probably say it all in Gaelic anyway. Just don’t tell me what it means.”  
  
“Aye, all right then,” Jamie said, chuckling. He kissed her brow and got out of bed resignedly. “Still, we’d best get dressed.”  
  
He pulled on his shirt, then carefully spread his kilt out on the floor atop his sword belt, pleating the fabric with practiced ease. He lay down on top of it and began to fold the cloth around himself, wriggling to get it just right. He stopped his movements when he heard Claire giggling from the bed above him.  
  
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked. She was on all fours at the end of the bed, peering over at him with a bewildered expression on her face. “You go through this little ritual every day, do you? The things you learn, marrying a Scot.”  
  
He smiled up at her, sheepish, feeling his face redden. He must look fair foolish, he thought, writhing about on the floor. It seemed a perfectly natural thing to him, putting on a kilt this way, but she was a Sassenach, after all.  _His_ Sassenach now, though, he reminded himself, and continued dressing despite her titters, buckling his belt before standing up and sitting next to her on the bed.  
  
His eyes drifted over her body, from the full lips curled into an amused smile, to the smooth ivory of her swan’s neck and soft shoulders, to her sweet, lovely breasts. He wanted her again so badly he could scarcely speak.  
  
“Oh, aye,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “Every day. I dinna usually have an audience for it, though. That’ll take some gettin’ used to, I reckon.”  
  
Their eyes locked for a long, silent moment. Then, as if suddenly realizing she was naked, Claire began searching around the disheveled bed, patting the quilts and blankets until she found her crumpled shift and pulled it over her head. She sat down next to him and looked at him, a little shyly.  
  
“Ye’re lovely in the morning, Sassenach,” he said, stroking her tousled curls and tucking them behind her ear. “All these past days since we’ve been on the road I’ve seen how ye look, wi’ your hair all tangled and your cheeks flushed wi’ the cold. I’ve longed to tell ye how bonny ye are.”  
  
“You have?” she said, blushing, but not taking her eyes away from his. “I never noticed you looking.”  
  
“No?” he asked. If she hadn’t, she was likely the only one. He felt sure all the men had suspected how he felt about her for days now, in spite of his efforts to keep some distance between himself and Claire while they traveled. He knew damned well his eyes followed her wherever she went, taking in the queenly way she carried herself, her gentleness as a healer, and the fire in her eyes when she was roused to anger.  
  
“Well,” she admitted, smiling, “maybe I noticed a little.” She took his hands in hers and squeezed them lightly.   
  
They should go downstairs to breakfast, he knew. He could hear the sound of people stirring -- Dougal and the men talking, the innkeeper and his wife rattling dishes -- but all he wanted was to stay here in this room with Claire. He hated the thought of breaking the spell of their night together and rejoining the group of noisy MacKenzies, all of whom would be the worse for drink after last night’s festivities.  
  
“Should we go to breakfast then, do you think?” Claire asked, as if reading his thoughts.  
  
“I suppose so,” he replied. “But...maybe not quite yet.”  
  
He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles of one, then the other, reminded again that she no longer wore the gold ring of her first husband on her left hand. Claire wore  _his_ ring now, was  _his_ wife. He thought he might die of pride at the thought. That is if the wanting of her didn’t kill him first.  
  
Leaning in, he touched her lips with his, gently at first, but with growing passion as she took his head in her hands, opening her mouth to his. Lord, he could never get enough of this, he thought, or of her. If he lived fifty more years, he knew he’d die still desiring this woman’s touch.  
  
He tugged her shift up and over her head, and she did the same with his shirt, running her hands over his chest and around to stroke his back. He removed his belt and began to take off his kilt, but Claire put her hands on his waist to stop him.  
  
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She pulled him down beside her on the bed, kissing him again as her breath grew quick and her hand slipped beneath the kilt. “Leave it on.”  
  
Afterward they lay in a sweaty jumble of blankets, his head resting on her chest as he listened to her heart beat slow and steady. His fingers traced the marks where he’d nipped at the pale skin of breasts and belly, biting his way down her body as she’d done to him the night before, and she shivered.  
  
“Jamie?” she said quietly.  
  
“Hmm?” he murmured, too tired for speech.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He chuckled weakly and used the last of his strength to lift his head and kiss her shoulder “For this? Ye’re most welcome, mo nighean donn, though I think it’s me should be thankin’ you.”  
  
“No, I meant...for everything. For keeping me safe from Randall. For the wedding. I know you did all you could to make it easier for me. The church, the dress. Just...thank you.”  
  
Jamie felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard. “Ye needna thank me, Claire. It was my pleasure, truly. And I dinna mean this,” he said, gesturing to the tangle of their sprawled limbs and the wrinkled bedclothes. “At least, not only this.”  
  
She laughed throatily and ran a languid hand through his hair, stroking his head until he almost hummed with the pleasure of it. He thought he’d never been so happy in all his life.  
  
“We probably ought to get up,” she sighed. “Before Rupert and Angus burst in again. I doubt we’d want them to see us in this state.”  
  
“No,” he replied. “Although there’d be no question about the marriage being consummated then, I suppose.”  
  
“Yes. I’m afraid that train has left the station,” she said, and he felt her stiffen briefly before she scooted out from under him and slipped into her shift for the second time that morning.  
  
Jamie cocked his head and looked at her as he sat up, but he didn’t question her. She smiled and seemed to relax when he said nothing, watching him as he straightened his clothes, donned his waistcoat, and began putting on his boots.  
  
She did say the most peculiar things sometimes, he thought, even for someone who’d had the gypsyish upbringing she’d told him about last night. He had to admit he didn’t always understand her, but he was glad to know he had the rest of his life to puzzle her out. His wife. His Sassenach.  
  
He stood up, suddenly so famished he thought he’d faint if he went another minute without food. He thought it best he go downstairs before Claire, in any case. Let the men get in their jibes with him, and he hoped they’d show a bit more restraint with her. If not, he’d find other ways to make sure they were more respectful in the future.  
  
“I’ll meet ye downstairs. If I don’t get something to eat soon, I might just take a bite out of you,” he said, leaning down to kiss her upturned face.  
  
“I believe you’ve already done that,” she said, smiling. She looked so beautiful in her rumpled shift, with the morning sun lighting her curls like a halo, that he was tempted to stay with her and starve rather than ever leave this room. His growling stomach had other ideas, though.  
  
“And I look forward to doing it again soon,” he replied. “Don’t be long, there’ll be nothing left but crumbs.”  
  
Closing the door behind him, he nearly tripped over a cat who lay curled up, snail-shaped, on the landing. The wee beast opened one eye to look at him, twitched its tail, then slowly closed its eye and began to purr, too lazy, warm, and contented to move from its place on the floor.  
  
It looked none too clean, but Jamie stooped to pet its head for a moment anyway. “Aye, cheetie,” he said with a smile. “I ken just how ye feel.”


End file.
